


My Mother’s Setting

by mrgoldsdearie



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, a bit of agnst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 11:43:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8488003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrgoldsdearie/pseuds/mrgoldsdearie
Summary: Oswald cooks Edward dishes his mother taught him to make.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, my goodness. Oh, my goodness! Ths is my first time writing for this pairing and this fandom. I’m so nervous about it. This feels like the very first time I ever posted a fic. I never thought this feeling could come back, but it did. Oh, shit! I’m so fucking nervous. Okay, okay….. *takes a deep breath* I’m looking forward to knowing what those who read it think and I hope that you like it. This was fun to write and I can’t wait to give this pairing another go. I hope to build my confidence and feel more comfortable in writing something longer and a little sexier….. So…. Ummm…. I think that’s all I want to say. *takes another anxious breath* Happy reading!

Oswald Cobblepot opens the oven for the sixth time since slipping the pot roast inside, anxious of undercooking his mother’s recipe. Tough meat is the last thing he wants to serve his dinner guest. He opens the lid to the cast iron dutch oven and dips a tasting spoon into the boiling beef broth. He gently blows off the steam, then savors the flavor once his lips can touch the steel spoon without the fear of being scorched. The familiar taste not only warms his stomach but his heart as well. Oswald hasn't eaten the dish since the day Gertrud Kapelput prepared it almost a month before she was robbed of her life. Having the flavor on his tongue, once again, brings him back to her loving arms.

He closes the oven and continues cooking the rest of the meal. The kitchen slowly fills with a perfume of spices that flows out through the corridors, breathing life from the old country throughout the first floor of the mansion.

Only ten minutes before his guest is due to arrive, Oswald has the maid set the dinner table precisely to his instructions. He’d do it himself if the meal didn't need a few crucial finishing touches.

He rests the last covered dish in the middle of the table and rearranges the flatware, glaring at the maid with a deathly stare. Why the hell did she even bother to touch the table if he had to go behind her and fix her simple mistakes?

The hollow hall outside of the dining room fills with the echo of footsteps drawing nearer and Oswald rushes the maid out of the chamber.

“Get lost,” he says harshly through his teeth.

The maid quickly scampers out, disappearing into the kitchen.

Oswald buttons the middle button of his black suit jacket and shifts his weight to the lift, holding his cane before him, hoping to catch the full attention of the one about to enter.

“Oswald, there were a few—” Edward Nygma stops just under the threshold in the dining room— “pages you didn't…..” He takes pause, gazing puzzled at the man standing next to a banquet of food. He drops his hands holding the documents down to his sides, taking in the handsome view and the aroma in the room.

“Good evening, Ed.” Oswald hobbles closer, cheeks blooming fuchsia with anticipation.

“What's this?”, he asks, as his mind tries to calculate the reasoning behind Mr. Penguin's behavior.

“It's a surprise for you.”

“Why?”

“Does someone always have to have a reason to surprise another?”

“Yes.”

Oswald huffs, snatching the papers from his Chief of Staff’s hand. “Sit down, Ed.” He slaps the papers down on the small round table next to the entrance. Anything having to deal with being mayor of Gotham will have to wait till tomorrow.

Edward straightens his glasses and smirks timidly, taking Oswald's hand. The warm touch of his palm is a sensation he’s craved all day.

Oswald leads the way to the dining table and offers Edward the head seat, then he takes the chair at his side.

“The table is set beautifully.”

“It's my mother's table setting,” Oswald hastily comments, almost cutting off Edward’s train of thought.

“I can see that.” He admires more of the finer details of this unusual table placing. Never has he seen such a unique setting. “Well, I still don't understand all of this—” Edward scoots himself closer to the table and removes the white cotton napkin from the solid gold ring— “but it's nice.”

“You don't have to understand everything, Ed.”

“I know. You keep telling me that.” He smiles, flashing his pearly whites this time.

Oswald opens the bottle of red wine and pours them each a glass. “Not only was dinner a surprise, but the food itself is another.”

Edward treats Oswald to another inquisitive gaze. It's not very often when he leaves him answer-less.

“I cooked everything myself, with my mother’s recipes,” Oswald clarifies.

“Oh…. Well that makes this even more special,” Edward replies. “It appears you put a lot of work into this. You didn't have to.”

“I wanted to.” He lifts the porcelain dome from the pot roast, steam rises out kissing both men on their noses. “You were worth it.”

Oswald’s half smile illuminates Edward’s face and he lowers his head to hide his blush. “I am forever in awe of you, Oswald.” Edward raises his head, taking the stem of the wine glass and pulls it closer to him. He’s amazed at everything Oswald has done to make him and their evening feel special, even if it's all for no logical reason.

Oswald serves the perfectly cooked pot roast with the side of warm potato salad and roasted root vegetables. “I hope you're hungry,” he chuckles, handing Edward the full plate of food. “I might have gone a little overboard with it just being the to two of us, you know. But I wanted to cook everything the way my mother used to.”

“Yes, I am hungry and I don't mind all the food,” Edward says reassuringly, cutting his knife through a tender carrot.  “I'm sure your mother cooked this way because she wanted to make sure you had enough to eat.”

“She did, and she tried to teach me everything she knew,” Oswald says softly in the small voice he reserves only for when they are alone together.  “I wish you could have met her, Ed.” He peers down at his plate, memories of his mother playing through his mind like a vivid movie. “She would have liked you,” he whimpers, holding back the tears of sorrow burning in his eyes. “She would have said; you've done good, Oswald. You finally found love.” His voice constricts with pain.

Edward reaches over and rests his hands on top Oswald’s, comforting him over the loss of his mother. He can only imagine the pain he feels every day without her.

Oswald slowly lifts his head to Edward’s welcomed touch, hooding his teary ocean blues up to Edward’s brow bar metal opticals, leering lovingly into the chocolate eyes peering back at him through the glass. He laces their hands together and gently pulls his love closer to him.

Edward raises from his seat and stands behind Oswald’s chair. He leans over the back of the wood and into the right ear before him. “I can be felt, yet has neither length, breadth, nor thickness,” he whispers. “What am I?”

Oswald sighs, wiping away the tear that has fallen to his cheek. “This isn't a very good time for one of your stupid riddles, Ed.”

“What am I, Oswald?”, he repeats in the shell of his ear.

He rolls his eyes dismissively, slightly shaking his head. “I -- I don't know.”

Edward presses his soft warm lips against Oswald's fair flesh. “I'm a kiss,” he reveals the answer.

Oswald bites his bottom lip and turns to face Edward. “Is this your way of making me feel better?”

“Yes.” He kisses Oswald passionately, unable to no longer confine his urges for a taste him.

Oswald lifts his right hand and cups the back of his head, lightly scratching the nape of his neck. “Mmm….”, he vibrates blissfully on his lips.

Edward’s hand slides down the front of Oswald's perfectly tailored suit, making his way to his pants.

Oswald abruptly breaks off their intense connection. “Ed….”, he says with a chuckle in his voice. “What about dinner?”

“We can come back and eat it after we consume each other,” he replies breathily upon his lips, tightening his hand around his bulge.

“Ah,” Oswald grunts as his left knee involuntary knocks on the wood table from underneath. “Who am I to complain?” He nips at his bottom lip. “It will be here when we come back.”

“Yes,” Edward says thickly, pulling out Oswald’s chair from under the table.

Oswald stands and takes Edward by the hand, shuffling out of the dining room together as quickly as they both psychically can.


End file.
